Chapter 2
DON’T SLEEP WITH HIM
AMIRA
Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him.
I keep repeating the mantra to myself as Henson pays for my first-class ticket. Normally, I’d never accept charity from a stranger, but I must get out of the city. The past few weeks have been a nightmare, and I’m just trying to find some sense of normalcy again.
The last thing I need is to get tangled up with anyone, especially not a playboy billionaire with charm sharp enough to cut through common sense. And of course, it doesn’t help that he has a smile that looks custom-built to ruin women.
I wasn’t lying when I told Henson I was running from a shitty breakup.
And now, I’m stuck at the airport, heartbroken—and really fucking angry—trying to make it to a last-minute job in Nantucket.
“Here you go, ma’am,” a voice says, snapping me back to reality. I blink and see the agent trying to hand me my passport.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, taking it.
I feel a light poke on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” Henson asks, his voice filled with concern.
“Uh… yeah,” I lie, not wanting to get into it. “Thanks for this.”
He gives me a skeptical look, clearly not buying my answer, but he doesn’t push.
“Of course. It’s the least I could do for someone so concerned about my bathroom habits,” he jokes.
A loud cackle bursts out of me. I quickly try to stifle it.
Somehow, I’ve smiled more with Henson in the last twenty minutes than I have in a long while, and the sound of my laughter is almost foreign. That realization is both comforting and terrifying.
My ex and I were together for four glorious years—or so I thought. We met at the tail end of college during a hospitality management seminar and were inseparable. I really believed we’d be together forever.
That’s what he always told me, at least.
Everything was great… until it wasn’t. One day, we’re discussing future plans, and the next, he’s breaking up with me because our “goals aren’t aligned”—whatever that means.
Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the real reason.
His parents never accepted me, and he knew mine would struggle to accept him. The difference is, I was willing to fight for us. And I did.
“Why’d you stop?” Henson asks.
“Stop what?”
“Laughing,” he replies, narrowing his eyes as if trying to get a better read on me.
I look at him, and my brain short-circuits for a second.
Tall, tailored, with a smile that looks like it comes with terms and conditions, Henson is a walking, talking Armani ad. And the worst part is he knows it.
No wonder I’m nervous.
I step away from the desk, letting out a sigh, and he follows.
“I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m a little surprised I’m even laughing. It feels a while since I last did.”
Henson’s expression softens, and I pray he’s not pitying me. I’ve had enough self-pity to last a lifetime.
Regretting my honesty, I quickly add, “I don’t know why I told you that. Let’s just pretend I didn’t, okay?”
His shoulders slump a little, but he quickly recovers. “Are you hungry?”
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly enough for the entire airport to hear. How embarrassing.
“I guess that answers my question.” He chuckles, grabbing my luggage. His eyebrows lift as he picks it up. “This is heavy.”
I shrug. “I didn’t know what to pack. I’m supposed to be there for a couple weeks.”
“Are you visiting family?”
I shake my head.
“Vacation?”
I shake it again. “Work.”
He grimaces. “In Nantucket?”
“In Nantucket,” I confirm, amused. If you’d asked me my dream destination for the holidays, Nantucket wouldn’t have been my first pick. But in my desperation to leave Seattle, this job seemed like the perfect escape.
Henson nods, though doesn’t ask any more questions. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait. Where are we going? The airport hotel is this way,” I say, pointing behind me.
“Oh, Mira. We’re not staying there. Perks of being a billionaire,” he responds with a wink. I roll my eyes, but I’m also surprised—and kind of charmed—by the nickname. I sort of… like it.
“I never should’ve called you a billionaire,” I mutter, my cheeks heating.
“Too late,” Henson quips, not missing a beat. “Come on. My driver is waiting outside.”
He doesn’t wait for me, already heading out the door with my suitcase in tow.
I guess I have no choice but to follow.
A few minutes later, I attempt to hop into the back of Henson’s sleek SUV.
I struggle, the car being too high for my 5’1” frame. Behind me, Henson chuckles.
“Let me help you,” he offers, placing his hands just above my hips, but I swat them away.
“I’m fine.” I turn to glare at him. Normally, my height doesn’t bother me, but his towering presence unnerves me.
Henson shoves his hands into his pockets with a smirk, not fazed by my sudden mood shift. Lately, I’ve been a bit hot and cold. Blame the breakup.
Finally, I manage to get inside, adjusting my skirt and top. Henson shuts the door behind me and circles around to the other side.
“Which hotel?” I ask once he’s inside.
“The Thompson,” he says casually.
I gasp. “What? The five-star luxury hotel? That’s so unnecessary, Henson.”
He waves me off, straightening his suit lapel like it’s no big deal. Sensing it would get me nowhere, I decide not to protest.
With nothing but time in the backseat, I take a moment to really look at him: the stubble outlining his strong jaw, the slight point of his nose, the way his bottom lip sticks out a little more than the top one.
His thick lashes frame piercing blue eyes, and his brown hair is tousled just enough to look effortlessly cool. He’s gorgeous.
I squeeze my legs together, trying to ignore the slow ache creeping through me.
Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him.
Suddenly, Henson turns his head toward me, catching me in the act.
“Were you just ogling me, Miss Amira?”
He smirks, and it sends a fresh wave of butterflies into my stomach. Shit. I keep embarrassing myself in front of him. He probably thinks I’m a complete weirdo.
I can feel my face heat up, but I try to play it cool. “I wasn’t ogling you. Just… thinking.”
“Uh huh.” His smirk deepens as if he knows exactly what’s running through my mind. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
I shake my head. Every fiber of my being wants to dive headfirst out of this car if it means putting a little more distance between me and Henson.
He’s too charming, and dangerously good at slipping past the walls I’ve built in the past weeks. I can’t afford to feel anything right now, especially not for someone like him.
As soon as the car halts at the hotel entrance, I practically fling myself out, desperate for air, but before I can make it to the doors, I hear his voice behind me.
“Mira.”
I turn, only to see him standing next to the open trunk with a wide grin. “Forgetting something?” His finger points to my suitcase, abandoned on the curb.
Flustered, I stomp back to grab it. I can’t fathom why his presence leaves me so rattled; the confidence I had at the airport has evaporated. All I know is that being around Henson makes me feel vulnerable—and a little too much like myself.
At the front desk, I’m greeted by an enthusiastic employee. “Welcome to The Thompson Hotel! How can I assist you this evening?”
“I’d like to book a room.”
The receptionist’s fingers dance across the keyboard, their face scrunching slightly. “Do you have a reservation?”
My shoulders slump, the answer already clear. “No.”
“I’m so sorry. We’re completely booked for the night.”
Just my luck.
An already-familiar presence looms behind me, enveloping me like a silk ribbon. The air itself seems charged, buzzing with his energy. His scent—rich, magnetic—intoxicates me, and I close my eyes, failing miserably at pretending I don’t enjoy it.
I’m so screwed.
My eyes fly open at the sound of something hitting the counter. Henson’s card lies there, and before I can say a word, he leans down to whisper, “You didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?”
A shiver races through me, his breath grazing my ear, and I exhale, more out of relief than resignation. But I quickly stiffen, my resolve returning. I’m about to politely decline whatever too-nice gesture he’s planning when my eyes catch the check-in screen angled toward us.
Miller, Henson.
The name glows in bold letters.
I freeze. Henson Miller? As in Mr. Miller of Worthwhile Construction? One half of the infamous brother moguls—the wealthiest men in Seattle?
No wonder the receptionist can’t stop smiling at him like he’s royalty.
I suddenly feel foolish, and worse—uneasy. Getting involved with someone like him could never be simple. I’ve already been burned once by a man who made me compromise myself to fit into his world. I’m not doing that again.
The receptionist taps something into the computer, still grinning. “I see you have the penthouse suite booked for the night.”
I blink. “Wait… the penthouse?” I whip around to face him. “What do you mean you have the penthouse suite booked? I’m not staying in the same room as you, Henson!”
A slow, wicked grin stretches across his face.
And damn it, I’m more attracted to him than I have any business being.
That smile shouldn’t be doing things to me.
Not after what I’ve just learned. Knowing who he is only confirms what I was already afraid of: Whatever was about to happen between us tonight can’t anymore.
No matter how loudly my body protests.
Henson steps closer and slides both arms around me and onto the counter, boxing me in. My breath catches. “It’s a two-bedroom suite. Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby or go back to the airport, I’m your only option, sweetheart.”
The receptionist returns Henson’s card and hands over two keys. “The penthouse elevator is just around the corner to your right. Your concierge’s number is in the room if you need anything.”
A bellhop grabs my suitcase before I can, and I pause, thrown off by the opulence surrounding me. This level of service, this world—it’s all surreal and dizzying. I don’t belong in it. I don’t belong with him.
My body clearly didn’t get the memo.
Because the second he slips an arm around my shoulders and leans in, my arousal—which I’m fighting tooth and nail to bury—comes rushing back like a tidal wave. Hot, urgent, and completely out of my control.
I should be worried. I am worried. And yet I’m also ridiculously turned on.
We head toward the elevator. “It’s one night, Mira. Try to relax and don’t get your panties in a bunch. Unless, of course, your panties are in a bunch… in the corner of the room.” He winks, and I can’t resist smacking his chest.
Just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself tight around my ribs... vanishes.
The heavy thoughts, the status panic, the overthinking—it all slips away, replaced by something lighter. He’s good at this.
At quieting the storm he doesn’t even realize I’m trapped in. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
“You’re obnoxious.” I roll my eyes, my lips twitching. “How hasn’t your mouth gotten you in trouble by now?”
His chuckle is a deep, velvet-wrapped temptation. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “my mouth is the kind of trouble you want to get into.”